


Falling

by Callistemon



Series: Get Up [1]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Angst, Anxiety, Blindness, Disability, Epilepsy, Friendship, Gen, Head Injury, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Medical, My First Fanfic, Neurological Disorders, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Seizures, Sickfic, The real batman, echolocation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 17:28:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8632189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callistemon/pseuds/Callistemon
Summary: “Foghh, pleahh”, Matt appealed. Foggy knew about his fear of hospitals, so why was he letting this happen?“Matty, you have to.” Foggy tried to placate him by using his childhood name. “You hurt your head. You had a seizure and you can’t even pronounce my name. This is not negotiable.”Matt’s hand was rubbed with oh-so-familiar-smelling alcohol. The paramedic reminded him (“now a small prick”) as the needle entered his vein. He appreciated the warning, but he was angry that they still weren’t listening to him. He didn’t want this. They couldn’t do this to him, surely. If only he could find the words..."*Matt Murdock gets whacked in the head (at least that's what he thinks might have happened) and it quickly goes downhill from there. Despite his protestations, he ends up in hospital following multiple seizures. Fortunately, Foggy's constantly by his side to discuss important topics like aliens, carrots, and dogs. (it's not all sad, I promise).*(also, this my first published FanFic)





	1. His tie was in a fisherman’s knot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note: this story takes place two weeks after Marvel/Netflix's Daredevil S02E02 but basically ignores everything that happens after that episode. There are a couple of references to moments in the comics.
> 
> I should also point out that some medical aspects of this fanfic may be inaccurate. However, I do have epilepsy so there is a bit of personal experience feeding into this - I can well attest that you end up utterly exhausted, irritable and disoriented immediately afterwards. Sorry, Matt.
> 
> Happy reading!

The day was just breaking as Daredevil stumbled down the stairs from the roof, bumping the railing as he rounded the corner. He pulled clumsily at his mask and it fell to the ground, skittering across the room. He’d pick it up in the morning. For practical reasons, he never usually left stray objects lying on the floor. Even with his enhanced senses, random objects and blindness were not a great combination. But he was tired and his head felt like it was in a vice-like grip. Did one of the tonight’s thugs get a swipe at his head? He tried to go through the evening’s event in his mind as he removed his suit, but it was a strange blur.

Slick with sweat, he made his way into the shower, clipping the doorframe on the way. He leaned against the shower stall a little as he washed, unsteady on his feet, trying not to dwell on his worrying lack of memory. He’d followed a group of men to the docks. They were talking about a shipment. What were they smuggling again? Or was it an assault? He squeezed the bridge of his nose, willing his brain to help him out.

After drying off, he collapsed onto the bed, not even bothering to struggle into his pyjamas. He could feel the blood pumping through his head. Pulsing, angry. He fell asleep with his arm outstretched towards the clock on the bedside table, alarm still unset.

* * *

 

“Foggy… Foggy… Foggy… Foggy…”

Matt swiped irritably at the phone. “Foghh?”

“Big night, Buddy?” Foggy quipped.

“Mmmm…” Matt groaned into the pillow.

“Get the hell up. Karen’s gone to the state archives to see if she can dig up more on Mr Browne’s family background, and I don’t want to be stuck with boring discovery on my own.”

“Yeah, yeah”. Matt needed him to stop talking. It was too loud. Piercing.

“Okay, I want to see you here in thirty. No more or I’m divorcing you as a business partner.”

“Fo…”

“Just kidding. Now get your arse down here.”

Matt swayed a little as he got out of bed. His headache had lessened a little, but he still couldn’t remember what had happened last night. Grabbing his tie, he crossed the ends as usual, pulling one end through, and… what was the next step? He untangled the ends and tried again. Cross, up, and through. His muscle memory kicked in and he sighed with relief. How could he forget how to do up a tie?

He leaned heavily against the railing as he descended the stairs of his apartment block. Between the headache and lack of sleep, he decided to splurge on a cab ride to work.

* * *

 

“Twenty-nine minutes,” Foggy bellowed from his chair as Matt entered the office. “Didn’t think you’d make it, Murdock.”

He jumped up and followed Matt into his personal office, summarising the day’s tasks as they walked. He stopped mid-sentence when Matt stumbled slightly and clipped his desk as he approached the chair. He leaned against the desk, head down, steadying himself before moving slowly into his chair.

“You okay, buddy?”

Matt waved a hand as if to say ‘stop bothering me, I’m fine’.

Foggy sighed a little, not convinced by Matt’s silent act, but continued summarising. “So if you take the McCartney correspondence and I take Zhang, perhaps we could get through them by mid-afternoon. Karen will probably be back by then, so we can revise what we have so far and hopefully knock-off work by beer-o-clock. What do you think?” 

Matt was silent. Still.

“Matt?” Foggy asked quietly.

“Yar thash fii…” Matt slurred.

“You’re not sounding great. Did you get shot in the head again?” Foggy said only half-jokingly. Matt was rarely honest about the extent of his injuries, and getting information about his night time activities was like drawing blood from a stone.

Before Matt could answer, his body went stiff, his head pushing back into the chair. Then drooping sideways, his body started convulsing.

“Shit!” Foggy tried to remember his first aid training he received in second-year college. He recited the guidelines out loud: “don’t hold them down, move objects away, don’t stick anything in their mouth, time the seizure, place a sweater or something under their head…” He hesitated, confused. “But he’s in a chair! What do I do if he’s upright?”

He supported Matt from the side to prevent him from falling off the chair, plucking the glasses off his face and clumsily dipping into his pocket for his phone. He was tempted to call Claire first, knowing that if Matt was conscious, he would almost certainly demand that the straight-talking nurse treat him off-duty, as opposed to a hospital. Matt had an almost pathological fear of hospitals, not to mention an understandable paranoia about being outed as Daredevil if the staff put two and two together. The seizure in itself wasn’t suspicious, but the many scars from knife and bullet wounds would be hard to explain. In the end Foggy decided that if Matt died, it really didn’t matter if his secret double identity was discovered. Shaking, he dialled 911.

By the time the paramedics arrived, Foggy had lowered Matt to the floor and placed him in the recovery position on his side. Matt’s pants were damp with urine and a wet patch of bloody saliva was forming on the suit jacket under his head. Matt would be a little peeved if he knew his usually immaculate jacket was crumpled on the dusty floor, but jackets could always be replaced.

The paramedics started questioning him before they even crossed the room. “Does he have a history of seizures?”

“No, not that I know of.”

“And do you know if there was any cause? Was he acting unusual beforehand?” one of them asked as the other placed an oxygen mask on Matt’s face, clipping a monitor to his finger.

Crouching down, the female paramedic, Sophie, quickly pulled a penlight out of her pocket, flicking the light in Matt’s right eye.

“He’s blind. No light perception”, Foggy blurted out, clearly flustered. “Sorry, I should have mentioned that on the phone.” He gestured in the direction of Matt’s usual cane parking spot - the edge of the entry vestibule. Only it wasn’t there. Sophie glanced at the spot Foggy was pointing to, confused as to what he was pointing at. “Surely he didn’t forget to use the cane this morning,” Foggy mumbled to himself, hoping that no one had noticed that the blind man had inexplicably navigated his way to work without his usual cane.

“No worries. Could you tell me if he was acting unusual,” the paramedic repeated. “Irritable? Slurred words? Did he seem disoriented?”

“Four for four. He couldn’t seem to find words, and when he did they were slurred. Plus he bumped into the desk getting to his chair.” Foggy quickly added, “I know that sounds reasonable for a someone who’s blind, but it’s not normal for Matt.” He paused, debating whether to elaborate on Matt’s extraordinary spatial awareness. “Also, he slept in and his tie was in a fisherman’s knot… also not normal for Matt. He’s very particular about his appearance, believe me.”

“We want to administer some medication to prevent further seizures. Do you know if he has any allergies?” 

“Only cats… oh and ferrets,” Foggy corrected. “Cats and ferrets.”

“And do you know if he’s taken any drugs lately, prescription or otherwise?”

“No, Matt never takes drugs. He’s too much of a control freak. 

“What about Asprin?”

“Dunno. It’s possible I guess. He has it in his house. Could Asprin cause this?”

“Not in itself, but Asprin’s a blood thinner. If he has an existing head injury it could potentially complicate things.”

 Foggy paled. How serious was this thing?

“Is that why he’s spitting up blood?”

“No, it looks like he just bit his tongue during the seizure. That can happen sometimes.”

 _‘Just_?!’ Foggy thought to himself.

“Charlie,” Sophie called to her colleague, “could you grab the c-collar and help me roll him over?” Overwhelmed by the medical speak (“hema”-something, “inferior”-something), Foggy watched in silent alarm as they worked together to gently roll Matt onto his back, fitting a bright yellow brace to his neck. One of them rubbed his chest in an attempt to get a response. Although it was not a good sign that Matt was still unconscious, Foggy was slightly glad to postpone the inevitable backlash that would occur when Matt woke up and realised an ambulance had been called.

On cue, Matt roused just as Sophie was feeling the back of his hand for a vein. He moaned and jerked his arm away, wincing at the sudden snap as something fell off his finger. As the paramedics wrestled to keep him still, Foggy tried to reorient the beast: “Matt… Matt… calm down…you’re in the office. You had a seizure, but you’ll be okay.” Foggy hoped that in his delirium, Matt wasn’t picking up on his frantic heartbeat or the uncertainty in his voice. (He’ll be okay, won’t he? He _has_ to be okay.)

Sophie chimed in, “can you tell me your name?”

Matt made an attempt to roll over with another moan, pushing weakly at his oxygen mask, which Sophie quickly moved back into place.

She repeated the question, “Can you tell me your name?”

“Ma… Mahhew Merhogh” he slurred.

“Good,” Sophie encouraged. “Can you tell me the day of the week?” After a brief silence, “okay, another question: can you tell me where you are?”

Matt frowned slightly, trying to figure out why he was on the ground, who they were, and where he was. He clicked his fingers a couple of times. Foggy had said something… a clue. What was it? He tried to make sense of the jumble of smells around him: plastic, antiseptic, wood, ammonia, dust, ink, coffee… it was too hard.

“Fo…”, he whimpered.

“I’m here, buddy. There are two paramedics here too. They’re trying to help you. Concentrate for me.”

Sophie gently touched his hands. “Matt, I’d like you to squeeze your left hand… good… and then your right… great.” If the paramedics had noticed Matt had confused his left and right, they didn’t say anything.

“Do you remember hitting your head at all?”

Matt frowned again, unable to remember anything from the day or so. “You have a fairly substantial bump on the side of your head. It might explain the seizure. We need to take you to the hospital for tests and observation.”

“No!” he started writhing again upon hearing the word ‘hospital’, trying to get up and away from the woman. He clawed at the plastic around his neck in panic. Recognising that Matt responded to words rather than physical force (not to mention avoiding battling the surprisingly strong man), Sophie reassured him, “you have a brace around your neck. You need to wear it just until we confirm you don’t have a spinal injury. You need to stay still and calm to help your brain rest. Can you do that?” Matt tried to map his spinal cord in his head. Surely he’d know if it was damaged in any way.

“I’m just going to put this clip back on your finger. It’s measuring your oxygen levels. It doesn’t hurt. You’re also going to feel a small prick on the back of your hand as I insert a needle. We need to give you some medicine following the seizure.”

“Foghh, pleahh”, Matt appealed, hoping that his friend would understand. Foggy knew about his fear of hospitals, so why was he letting this happen?

“Fo…?” he tried again.

“Matty, you have to.” Foggy tried to placate him by using his childhood name. “You hurt your head. You had a seizure and you can’t even pronounce my name. This is not negotiable.” 

Matt’s hand was rubbed with oh-so-familiar-smelling medical alcohol. Sophie reminded him (“now a small prick”) as the needle entered his vein. He appreciated the warning, but he was angry that they still weren’t listening to him. He didn’t want this. They couldn’t do this to him, surely. If only he could find the words…

“I refushe.”

Foggy turned to the paramedics, rolling his eyes at Matt’s stubbornness. “Surely he can’t refuse treatment in this state. He’s clearly not competent to make such a decision, and I’m his medical power of attorney. What can we do?”

Matt started shifting again, increasingly distressed. Before he could protest further, however, Matt let out a deep moan and his hands clenched tight as he experienced a second seizure. Foggy was relieved to take the back seat this time. He watched, horrified, as Sophie deftly pushed a syringe of liquid into the cannula attached to Matt’s now jerking limb.

After the convulsions had finished, the paramedics turned to Foggy. “We can’t leave him. As you said, he’s disoriented, confused. And a second seizure suggests significant damage. It’s tricky because the usual diagnostics like pupil response aren’t possible in his case, but the hospital can conduct scans to confirm the injury and assess the extent of the damage.”

“I’m prepared to suffer the consequences if he gets angry later, believe me”. Foggy would do just about anything for Matt.

“We’re going to move him now. Would you like to accompany us in the ambulance? He’ll probably be quite agitated and disoriented again when we wakes up so it would be good for him to see a familiar face … er, I mean voice, hear your voice, when he comes to. We need to minimise movement to prevent swelling and secondary injury.”

“Of course.” There’s no way Foggy would let Matt travel alone.

He watched as the two gently shifted him onto a stiff board and strapped him in place. Foggy was still learning more and more about the extent of Matt’s strength and skills, and he suspected the man’s ability to negotiate restraints might even challenge the thick straps if he were to wake up at this point.

Matt remained unconscious throughout the short trip to Metro-General Hospital. He got carsick easily, and the combination of sirens and movement would have distressed him on a normal day, let alone in his current state. Foggy whispered reassurances to his friend the whole way, hoping Matt could somehow still hear him and will him to spontaneously recover.


	2. Fog… no druz

Matt was still out cold as they took him to radiology for an x-ray. The radiographer was confident that there were no fractures in his skull or spine, so they removed the neck brace. Apart from the obvious good news that there was no spinal damage, Foggy remembered Matt’s panic about the constricting brace. That was one anxiety trigger removed at least. The tox screen also came back clear, which at least meant that Daredevil hadn’t fallen into a vat of dioxin or something.

Matt slipped back into consciousness to an assault of foreign sounds and smells.

He jerked to the side, and pulled at the IV tube in panic. Hands pushed him down and he writhed in response.

“Mr Murdock... Matt… you’re in at Metro General Hospital. You had a seizure, and you have hurt your head. If you don’t calm down we’re going to have to sedate you. “ It was spoken in a slow, regular speaking voice, not knowing that to Matt, the volume was akin to a loudspeaker. He cringed and continued to fight, knocking off his oxygen mask and whacking his hand against the side of the bed, which was thankfully lined with cushioned inserts. He could hear a shouted order to administer a sedative and get the restraints. He stopped still. The last thing he wanted was to be unconscious again.

“No druu…” he slurred. “ Pleah no…”

“Matt?” a timid voice asked. The familiar tone of Foggy.

“Ngh…” A grunt-moan.

“Matt, please let them help. You don’t want to make it worse.”

The mask was replaced, and he was tempted to knock it off again. It smelled plasticky, and the edges rubbed uncomfortably against the stubble on his sweaty face. The mask was getting between him and Foggy. It was a barrier that had to go. He rubbed the elastic strap irritably.

“Fog… no druz”.

“Huh?” Foggy responded.

“No…” Matt clicked his fingers a couple of times and made a weak gesture at the IV pole next to him.

“Oh, no _drugs_?”

Matt gave a small nod. “I can’t… I can’t he.. he…lisseh.” He breathed heavily for a minute, trying to find the words. He tried again, this time pointing at his ear. “Can’t hea pro…p… right,” he huffed, voice muffled by the mask.

“You can’t hear properly if you take sedatives?”

He interpreted for the nurse who was still standing next to the IV, syringe ready. “Because he’s blind, he relies on his other senses to orient himself, and they’re affected by the drugs. He also gets quite panicky when he’s sick and his senses are affected.”

Matt gave a nod, ever thankful for Foggy’s presence. Now all he had to do was convince Foggy to take him home. He’d just sleep it off.

The doctor interrupted, “that’s good to know. However, he’s still slurring his words and acting erratically. It’s not uncommon to be disoriented following a seizure, but I understand you told the paramedics that he was slurring his words before he first seized?”

Foggy nodded.

She continued, “of course, we don’t know if it was his first seizure for the day – he might have had one earlier. But we do know his oxygen saturations are low, and we also need to find out if there’s a link between the seizures and the injury on his head. This needs to be treated seriously.” She raised her voice a little in this final statement and Matt winced, pulling the blanket up to one ear.

“Matt, we can hold off giving you heavier sedatives for now as long as you stay still and calm, and have no more seizures. Can you keep as still as possible for me?” Matt let out a quiet hiss of agreement.

“Good. Now will you accept a small dose of a medication called Lorazepam? It’s similar to the one the paramedics administered during your second seizure, which is about to wear off. It has a sedative effect…” Matt was poised to say no, but the doctor continued quickly before he could interrupt. “However, it also increases your seizure threshold and can help with swelling in the brain. It wears off fairly quickly and we can give you only a little bit at a time. You can talk to Mr Nelson about ceasing it if you’re unhappy.”

Foggy quickly appealed to Matt, “come on buddy, please say yes. You don’t want to have another seizure. Just try it. For me.” Matt rolled his eyes slightly at the guilt-trip act, but eventually gave a small nod. Only for a short time though. For Foggy.

The doctor waved a silent okay at the nurse, who added the new medication to his IV. Evidently this strategy had been rehearsed. 

The doctor continued to grill Matt. “Have you ever had a seizure before?” Matt shook his head once. Movement was easier than words.

“Have you had any head injuries in the past? It says in your medical records that you were blinded by a chemical spill, but there was no evidence of any damage to the brain per se.” Matt went silent. He didn’t want to lie. It was important information. But he also didn’t want to go into ‘Daredevil’s’ undocumented medical history, let alone his (usually) heightened senses.

Interpreting the silence as confusion, the doctor turned to Foggy. “So you have no knowledge of past seizures?”

“That’s correct.” 

“What about head injuries?”

Foggy paused, and Matt caught the sound of his unusually rapid heartbeat. No doubt Foggy was thinking back to the time Daredevil got shot in the head and he had to drag an unconscious Matt back to the apartment in full daylight. Matt had never told Foggy about losing his sense of hearing following that incident. Foggy had stormed out before that had occurred. Matt desperately hoped his hearing wouldn’t disappear again. He was finding it hard to hear properly as it was.

“Yes,” Foggy finally admitted. “A couple of weeks ago”.

“What happened, do you know?” 

“Um…” Foggy wasn’t about to tell the doctor about a gunshot to the head. “I think he just fell over or something. He can be a bit clumsy at times.” The doctor looked suspiciously at Foggy. The scars and bruises all over Matt’s body had not gone unnoticed, and while they weren’t the priority concern, there was something very suss about his extensive collection of past wounds.

“Did he lose consciousness? Any slurring, disorientation, change in behaviour?”

“Yeah, he was out for quite some time. No slurring though. No change in behaviour either –as stubborn as always.”

“You didn’t think to bring him to the hospital?” Of course Foggy considered it. But there was that small detail of the Daredevil suit, and of course Matt’s irritating bloody-mindedness.

“Yes, but he hates hospitals. And he seemed to be okay afterwards.”

“Well this kind of damage can be cumulative, and we need to make sure he doesn’t do any further damage. The x-ray showed that there are no fractures to his skull, but it looks like there might be some bleeding. I’d like to do a CT and an EEG. Maybe an MRI depending on what the other tests show. The CT will tell us if there is any swelling, bleeding, or clots. The EEG will allow us to see if he’s having any further seizure activity. Sometimes seizures are a one-off, but these kinds of injuries can also lead to ongoing epilepsy.”

Foggy nodded weakly. It was a lot of information. He was tempted to ask if he could take notes, just as he did in client meetings.

“It says here he’s a lawyer. Language isn’t usually a problem then?” 

Foggy huffed in amusement. “No, it’s often hard to shut him up. He graduated top of the class at college too. He’s got a good brain.” He paused. “Well, usually.”

The doctor turned back to Matt. He seemed to be drifting off again, so she kept it short. “Matt, we’re going to do some more tests. We need to find out the cause of the seizures, as well as your problems speaking and breathing. Someone will take you to radiology shortly for a CT scan that will allow us to see what’s happing in your brain. Do you understand?”

He responded by awkwardly shifting down the bed, curling up on the flat half of the mattress. Horizontal. Better.

But that didn’t last long.

“I’m sorry, but you need to sit up, Matt. We can recline the bed a little more, but it’s best for your brain and lungs if you’re not lying flat.”

He gave a small sob, pushing at the now rumpled blankets with his foot. His world had become a dizzying melange of pain, exhaustion, confusion, humiliation and anxiety.

In particular, Matt was increasingly frustrated with his inability to form words. He was mostly able to follow the conversation between Foggy and the doctor, and was unhappy about being excluded from the decision-making process. He didn’t want his brain scanned. It was _his_ brain. What would show up on it? Perhaps they’d see something strange on the scan that would give his super senses away. Is that possible? 

He thought about doing a run for it. He’d do it while they were wheeling him to radiology. It’d be harder to restrain him that way. He’d been concussed before and turned out fine. He’d just go home and meditate. He was a quick healer, he reasoned. But at the same time, the seizures frightened him a little. He prided himself on his independence and needed absolute control. If he had another seizure on the way home who knows who would find him, or what they’d do to him while unconscious and vulnerable.

“Fog…”, he croaked.

“Yeah Matt?”

Matt lifted a hand, and Foggy quickly understood, grasping his hand.

“I know you don’t like hospitals, but I’m here. I won’t move from your side.”

Matt whispered “doen leh em reshtray me.” He figured that Foggy, as his closest ally, was probably best placed to prevent such measures. “O druh me,” he added, lifting his head slightly.

“Yeah, yeah. No restraints, no drugs.” Foggy was unsurprised at the stubbornness, but getting a bit frustrated at Matt’s lack of self-care. “But only if you lie still. Otherwise all bets are off.” Matt raised one eyebrow at Foggy’s hard line stance. He trusted Foggy completely, but his fear of being restrained was evidently not being communicated well enough.

“Please Matt. You need to take this seriously. You’ve been assessed as incompetent to make informed health decisions at the moment, so I’m acting as your medical proxy. I’ll try to conform to your wishes; however, I can’t let you hurt yourself. I know you hate hospitals and you always need to be in control, but you won’t be much use as my business partner if you do any more damage to your brain.” Foggy hated himself for dealing that card, yet it was true. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if permanent damage was to occur, but Matt needed to know it was a possibility. 

“And don’t you _dare_ think about escaping”, he said, jokingly. Matt gave a small smile in return, hoping he looked innocent. How did Foggy know?


	3. I see you’ve been busy

Matt was transferred to the Neuro ICU after the CT scan. Foggy watched Matt critically throughout the transfer. He seemed more agitated than before, clicking his fingers at intervals and frowning.

The NICU was definitely quieter than the ER, but came with a new set of sensory assaults. It also made Matt consider the gravity of the situation a little more. This was not just Foggy being overprotective. At least Foggy was still going along with Matt’s request for light sedation only. He could trust Foggy.

Matt flinched slightly as Claire entered his room with the sarcastic greeting, “I see you’ve been busy.” He gave her what he hoped was a withering expression in response. “What the hell happened?” she whispered, her words sharp yet concerned. “Actually, stay still,” she corrected. 

Matt was happy to comply, relieved that he wouldn’t have to find the words to respond – a problem that had never before plagued Matthew Murdoch, public speaker extraordinaire. Besides, he was absolutely exhausted. Every time he seemed to drift off, someone would wake him and ask him his name and other banal questions. He was sick of squeezing fingers and pointing his toes on command. He was stick of people taking blood, pulling on his IV, and bustling in and out to check the constantly humming machines. He just wanted to rest.

But now Claire was here, asking questions, no doubt trying her best not to call him an idiot. All he needed was Karen and it would be a right party.

“How…” Matt started.

“I called her,” Foggy interrupted, clearly able to read his mind (how does he do it?). “It’s her day off, so be nice.”

“But I work in the same hospital.” Claire pointed out. “I would have found out eventually.”

“Kare?”

“Karen’s still not answering her phone, buddy. To be honest I don’t know where she is, but I can try again now if you’d like.”

Matt was secretly glad that Karen was out of range. He adored her, but she worried a lot. The last thing he needed was more questions, more smothering, more talking.

“No… s’okay.”

He heard Claire grab the chart at the end of his bed, pages rustling as she read the already extensive notes. “Behavioural issues… pressure… hypoxaemic… resistance… irritable…”, Claire read under her breath. Matt was a little taken aback. Was she scolding him?

She looked up at Matt. “Two seizures, including a rather lengthy second one. I would have thought they’d have intubated you after that.”

“Matt has a thing about sedation,” Foggy deadpanned. Matt was sure he could sense some kind of silent communication between the two.

Claire continued reading. “Your first CT showed a small amount of swelling. Not enough to require surgery or drainage. That’s good. I’m guessing they’ll do another one later tonight. As an aside, I’d quite like to see if your special senses show up as anything distinguishable on the scan.” Matt frowned. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell you if they do,” she quickly added, clearly sensing Matt’s discontent.

She kept reading. “They haven’t done an EEG yet. Huh.”

“Ir fiiiii,” Matt mumbled, embarrassed. He started to push the oxygen mask away to make his point.

“When you can’t pronounce your favourite phrase, ‘I’m fine’, you’re definitely not,” Claire quipped. “And you need to keep that on,” she said readjusting his mask. “Your oxygen levels are still too low and if you’re not careful they’ll have to stick a tube down your throat.”

Just as Claire was about to launch into a lecture about Matt needing to take the situation seriously, a technician wheeled in a trolley with the EEG machine. He introduced himself and Matt closed his eyes as if to say ‘go away’.

Unperturbed, he continued addressing Matt. “I’m going to put some wires on your head. It’ll allow us to look at electrical activity in your brain.” Matt opened his eyes again in alarm. “It won’t hurt, but it will involve a lot of wires attached to your scalp.”

Matt already felt overloaded by the various tubes and wires attached to him. Electrodes on his chest, the IV, the monitor on his finger, and that irritating mask. He felt embarrassed that Foggy and Claire could see him like this: vulnerable, needy, reliant.

“I’m going to map out the correct sites for the electrodes, then attach them with this paste.” He held out an object for Matt to see. “It washes out, don’t worry.”

Foggy quickly told Matt, “he’s going to touch your head now”, a little irritated that the guy didn’t seem to know (or perhaps just care) that Matt was blind.

The technician lifted Matt’s head up gently, feeling for the base of his skull and parting his hair. It was all a little to intimate, Matt thought.

“Now I’m going to rub each site slightly before I attach the electrode so as to get a good connection. It might feel a little scratchy.” Matt jerked as he rubbed the first site. It felt like he was rubbing the skin away with sandpaper. “Hey hey hey… I’m sorry, is it too much?” Matt’s eyes watered. The onslaught of pain, confusion and sensory overload was getting to him, and the sensation of scratching over his already sensitive scalp was definitely too much. “Ok, I’ll use something softer to prepare the sites.”

Another voice to his side interrupted, “remember I can give you stronger pain medication if you’d like, or something to calm you.” Matt started to shake his head in refusal, but stopped when he realised the technician was holding it still.

Being a highly conductive metal, he could sense the EEG wires easily, even with his senses significantly dampened. Every time he even slightly moved, he felt the tendrils vibrate against his scalp. It was an unnerving sensation. The ones on his forehead were particularly itchy, and he tried to visualise them as soft balls of silk instead.

“We’re going to leave these attached until we’re satisfied that the seizure activity has ceased. The monitor runs continuously. Are you feeling particularly uncomfortable?” Matt thought it was a ridiculous thing to ask. A head of sticky attachments and he was asking if it was uncomfortable?! “S’ok” he mumbled. It was tolerable for now. 

“Great. I’m just going to stay here for awhile and see what your activity is at the moment.”

“Where Foh…?” Matt said to no one in particular.

“I’m over here, buddy”.

Matt felt a hand on his as a chair was dragged close to the bed. “I’m here, Matty. I won’t leave you.”


	4. you kinda look like an alien right now

Matt’s breathing got steadily worse. He was getting increasingly exhausted, and his oxygen levels remained lower than the doctors would like. There was more talk of intubation. Sedation. Just for a day or two. ‘You won’t even know what’s happening’, they kept telling him (as if _that_ was going to persuade him).

Matt just wanted them to leave him alone. No more decisions. No more wires. No more drugs. The small doses of sedatives were bad enough. His head felt like cotton wool, some of it no doubt attributable to the seizures, but still.

“We need to make sure enough oxygen is getting to your brain to prevent long term damage,” his doctor argued.

Matt wasn’t completely unreasonable. He knew his future as a lawyer depended on his brain. Without his senses, he’d be truly blind. But he’d ignored a substantial head injury in the past without long-term damage and got away with it. He could get better without losing control. Without powerful sedation. He opened his mouth to say as much, but the words just wouldn’t come.

Claire chimed in, “could something less invasive like BiPAP work?” (Matt was puzzled. When did Claire arrive? How did she know he was here?) 

The doctor snapped back at the uninvited medical advice, “who are you?”

“Claire Temple, ER nurse, friend of Mr Murdock.”

Foggy was still holding Matt’s hand, and it tensed a little at the exchange. Matt imagined that he was probably half expecting to have to break up a fight between the two women.

Claire continued, “he doesn’t cope well with sedation, and intubating him without sedation would be too stressful for him with this injury. But it would be better than leaving him as is.”

Fortunately the doctor considered the suggestion without pulling rank. “He’s exhausted, and his oxygen sats are dropping again. Intubation and deep sedation would be preferable at this stage, but yes, there are alternatives.”

The doctor turned to Matt again. “Are you sure you won’t accept heavier sedation, Matt? It would be the most sensible option at this point.”

Matt couldn’t believe he had to keep fighting this battle. “No druh”, he repeated, pulling at his blankets in mindless frustration.

“It’s less than ideal, but we can help you breathe with a machine that essentially forces air into your lungs through a slightly different mask. You might find it a little uncomfortable, but at least you’ll be able to have a rest from breathing on your own for a bit. We need you to be as still and calm as possible so as to give your brain an opportunity to rest. Do you understand?”

Matt nodded. Anything to avoid more drugs.

A nurse introduced the new machine to Matt. “The mask is a little larger than your current one. There is a support that rests on your forehead and covers your entire mouth and nose. We want you to be as comfortable as possible. Do you want to feel it first to familiarise yourself?”

Matt brushed his hands around the object that was nudged against his hand.

“It has to be air-tight so you might feel some pressure around your head, but the straps shouldn’t be uncomfortable. I’ll avoid placing the straps over the bruised area and the EEG wires, but first I’m just going to hold it in place first for ten minutes to get you used to it. Touch my hand if you need me to remove it. The air pressure might be a bit of a surprise but you have to stay calm and let it do the work for you, okay?”

Matt gave a small nod, cringing as the EEG wires rubbed against the back of his head. Surely the surface area of his head was already used up.

Someone removed his existing oxygen mask, and drips of condensation that had gathered on the mask from his laboured breathing landed on his chin. With a scratchy towel, they mopped up the accumulated sweat with more force than necessary.

The new mask was definitely not comfortable. Although it fitted neatly around his mouth and nose and was a lot softer, it felt paradoxically suffocating for a device that was meant to allow him to breathe better. He let out a moan of shock as the machine aggressively pushed air into his nose and mouth. After ten minutes, four hands carefully clipped the mask into place, hesitating a little when he reacted to the harsh sound of ripping Velcro as they adjusted the fit.

He concentrated on the machine’s rhythm. There was no need to panic. He wore a mask almost every evening, albeit one that only covered his unseeing eyes. He was the Man Without Fear for fucks sake.

But the more he tried not to panic, the more he felt the constricting pull of the straps and the pressure around his face. The sound of the machine was grating. Too loud! Too loud! No doubt the sweat on his face provided extra suction, but it felt like the plastic was driving into his skull. He gave a panicked gasp, and realising he had no choice about altering his breathing rhythm, he started clawing at the mask.

“No no no! Matty! You can’t…” hands gripped his, and he lashed back, hitting a soft target. “Ow!” Foggy yelped. He’d hurt Foggy! It was enough to short circuit the panic, and he rested his arms back on the blanket just as the machine forced air into his lungs once again. 

He tried to say sorry, to ask Foggy if he was okay, but the mask was too tight. That’s right. They told him he wouldn’t be able to speak. Feeling powerless and exhausted he tried and failed to think of a gesture that would convey his concern and deepest apology. He felt a hand touch the back of his, turn it over and gently unfurl his fingers that were balled up in his palm. Palm against palm, he could feel Foggy’s heartbeat, calming, reassuring. It was way too fast – a beat of panic and fear – but it was nevertheless soothing. Matt, completely worn out, succumbed to the machine’s even rhythm: slow breath in, slow breath out, slow breath in, slow breath out.

He’d long stopped being able to distinguish heartbeats in the room, including Foggy's. Foggy probably didn’t realise just how important that hand-on-hand contact was to Matt. Without the ability to speak, Matt instead gave his friend's hand a small squeeze in thanks.

He was also upset that the mask blocked out the smell of Foggy - his anchor of familiarity throughout all this - but then again it also blocked the smell of the hospital, the antiseptic, blood, infection. All that remained was the plastic of the mask mixed with the smell of his own fear-laced sweat. 

He could feel a drop of sweat run down the side of the mask. His skin prickled slightly under the pressure. Matt closed his eyes and tried to meditate his way to equanimity (“ _the mind controls the body, Matty”_ ).

* * *

 

Foggy in the meantime was into his tenth hour of ‘what ifs’. What if Matt never recovered? What if Matt’s senses were dampened permanently? What if Matt’s language deficit remained? Would he move in with Foggy? Could they afford to live in the Kitchen still? Would Matt recover enough to practice law? Could he practice law while looking after Matt? Would he be a full-time carer? What if Matt dies? Tears ran down Foggy’s cheeks as he dwelled on the various scenarios.

The doctors had stressed that the swelling shown on the scans was fairly minimal, but that Matt’s condition could get worse, and with his breathing difficulties there was a risk of further damage. Should he have insisted that Matt be sedated and intubated against his wishes? In his disoriented state, Matt wasn’t competent to make these decisions, but Foggy knew that Matt needed to be able to trust him in order to stay calm and compliant. Foggy didn’t want to be the one to make these decisions though. He started sobbing louder, trying to muffle the noise with his sleeve. Matt’s eyes were now closed, but Foggy felt a slightly tighter squeeze to his hand – a comforting gesture. Even half-conscious and unable to talk, Matt was still reassuring his best friend.

* * *

 

Claire had excused herself briefly after the new mask was fitted. She knew Matt was unlikely to truly relax with all the ambient noise, so she went in hunt of a distraction: the shelf of books and magazines in the nurses’ staffroom.

“ _Pride and Prejudice, Vanity Fair, Great Expectations, War of the Worlds_ …” Foggy read, shuffling through Claire’s offerings. “Gee you like your Penguin Classics.” 

“Well, it was either that or medical textbooks or clinical guidelines. I brought you one of the trashy magazines though just in case you want to catch up on the latest celebri-gossip.”

Foggy rolled his eyes. “I’m good.”

“Okay buddy, which one do you want?” He read the titles again, and Matt raised his finger at the last book.

“ _War of the Worlds_. Of course. Between your mask and wired hair, you kinda look like an alien right now yourself.”

Matt might have found that funny on a normal day. He would have understood that it was a joke, not a criticism. But in his delicate, brain-addled state, he took it as an insult. The feelings of embarrassment and shame (both unwarranted, of course) over his reliance on so many external things were suddenly amplified, and his eyes filled with tears.

“Hey, I’m sorry.” Foggy apologised, distressed, trying to hug Matt without disturbing any of the wires. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Please don’t cry.” He gave a look to Claire, begging for back-up.

“Matt, you don’t look like an alien,” Claire chimed in, rather unhelpfully. Foggy widened his eyes and made a slashing motion at his neck (translation: shut up. Don’t remind him what I said).

It was at that point that Karen decided to turn up. Apparently she’d left her phone at home and returned that evening to find fifteen text messages and eight voicemails from Foggy.

“Matt! Shit! What the hell? Foggy, what happened? Is he okay?”

“No, Karen. He’s not,” Foggy snapped. “Come outside.” He pulled Karen into the corridor and Matt could hear the barely whispered argument – an argument that probably wouldn’t have happened if she’d arrived two minutes earlier.

The stress of this series of events was quickly threatening the delicate equanimity Matt had attained. Claire made her way over to Foggy’s chair beside the bed, but before she could sit down, the alarm on one the machines went off as Matt fell into his third seizure for the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know where it comes from, but I tend to say 'I fell into a seizure' for some reason. I don't think it's an official thing. Obviously there are the links to falling asleep, and of course, physically falling if you're standing up (which Matt fortunately avoids three times). I sometimes hear 'suffered a seizure', which irritates me a little bit. Does anyone use another word?


	5. It’s long deflated but he kept it anyway.

After all Matt’s protesting, he’d finally ended up on a ventilator, heavily sedated, and very much out to it. The doctors said they didn’t have much choice, and Foggy agreed, almost relieved that he didn’t have to fight Matt anymore. They assured him that the sedatives would be tapered and the breathing support reduced once they were confident the seizures had ceased, and his oxygen levels were within a normal range. They’d also explained that the restraints were just a precaution given his earlier behaviour. It wouldn’t be the first time a patient had tried to self-extubate or pull out their IV in a panic.

Karen and Claire returned home once it became clear Matt wasn’t going anywhere soon, with Claire promising to drop in prior to her shift the following day. The NICU had visiting hour restrictions for all but family members, but as his medical proxy, Foggy was thankfully permitted to stay. He was essentially Matt’s family anyway.

“He’s probably too sedated to hear you, but you could always read to him just in case,” one of the nurses suggested to a pacing Foggy (the nurse knew full well that if nothing else, the act of reading would help Foggy with _his_ anxiety). “Or you could massage his hands or feet.”

The staff had already reassured Foggy and Karen multiple times that the seizure was not their fault, that his seizure threshold was already low, and that they should concentrate on supporting Matt now. It didn’t relieve Foggy’s guilt, but at least reading was _something_ he could do to help.

Foggy picked up _War of the Worlds,_ stopped, then swapped it for another. He didn’t want to risk Matt dwelling on his alien comment. He cleared his throat.

“ _Vanity Fair_ by William Makepeace Thackeray… _As the Manager of the Performance sits before the curtain on the boards, and, looks into the Fair, a feeling of profound melancholy comes over him in his survey of the bustling place. There is a great quantity of eating and drinking, making love and jilting, laughing and the contrary, smoking, cheating, fighting, dancing, and fiddling: there are bullies pushing about, bucks oogling the women, knaves picking pockets, policemen on the look-out, quacks (_ other _quacks, plague take them!) bawling in front of their booths, and yokels looking up at the tinselled dancers and poor old rouged tumblers, while the light-fingered folk are operating upon their pockets behind.”_

He paused. “Gee it sounds like they need a Daredevil, Matt.”

He gave it a good couple of hours then fell asleep just before he (and Matt?) could get the full dirt on Sir Pitt Crawley and his ‘low life’ tastes.

* * *

 

Karen arrived the next day armed with a helium balloon with a tropical fish on it. She’d popped by Matt’s apartment earlier and picked up a few personal items, as well as a soft blanket and one of Matt’s silk pillowslips. Foggy had said it was important.

She hovered outside the door, waiting for Foggy to finish up with Matt’s doctor. He seemed slightly less wired than when she last saw him, but proceeded cautiously. “Any news?” she asked, handing him a coffee and sandwich.

“Oh thank god. I haven’t had any proper food in twenty-four hours, and I’m in desperate need of caffeine.”

“I could get you something else if you’d like.”

“That’d be great, thanks.” Foggy paused. “He hasn’t had any more seizures, which is good.”

Karen nodded, not sure what to say.

“Um, there was something about output, and his oxygen levels are much better. They’re going to lower the sedation and see how he goes.”

“So he’ll be awake with that thing down his throat?” Karen asked, alarmed.

Foggy shrugged. “Maybe. They don’t know.”

“There’s a lot of that.”

After an uneasy silence, Karen asked, “so how are you going?”

Deflecting, he replied, “well, I’m doing better than him,” gesturing towards Matt with a brief tilt of the head. It was something that Matt would usually do.

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

Foggy sighed. “I’m okay. But this has been hard. I’m tired, worried, and a little bit angry.”

“With Matt?”

“No, not exactly. Just cross with everything generally. It’s more frustration than anger.”

When Karen didn’t say anything, Foggy elaborated. 

“I love Matt more than anything, but he can be irritatingly stubborn at times. He refused most of the recommended medication, and although I could override it because he was assessed as not competent to make decisions, I didn’t really want to go against his wishes because I know he’d make those same decisions even without a brain injury. It was a tricky call to make though. Plus he always gets really anxious and disoriented when he’s sick, and I don’t know how to communicate that to the doctors and nurses. They’ve been great, but they’re busy and don’t have time to get to know Matt and some of his quirks. I feel like I’ve spent the last 24 hours mediating between Matt and the hospital staff. I guess I just worry what would have happened if I wasn’t around, that’s all.”

“But you _are_ here.” Karen gave Foggy a supportive hug. It was a little bit awkward.

“Sooooo… what’s with the fish?"

“Well, last time I got Matt a monkey, so I thought I’d mix it up a little.”

“Oh yeah, Matt loved that balloon. You know he still has it in his drawer? It’s long deflated of course, but he kept it anyway. It’s folded up next to an old origami bracelet made from an icecream wrapper.”

“Truly? He kept it? That’s a little bit sad.”

Foggy shrugged. “It’s a Matt thing.”

“I guess the monkey will have a friend then. A slimy underwater friend.”

Foggy narrowed his eyes. “It’s because he looks like he’s scuba diving, right?”

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Just don’t tell Matt, okay? He’s a bit self-conscious about his appearance.”

“I’ll tell him it’s a bird instead. He won’t know,” she said jokingly.

“You’re going to lie to a blind man? That’s terrible, Karen Page.”

Karen walked over to the bed, clasped Matt’s hand and whispered to him, “it’s a fish.”


	6. Why was Foggy fondling his feet?

As Matt’s head started to clear, he became aware of someone touching his feet. Fingers moved up the soles of his feet, and then rubbed each of his toes in turn. What was going on?

His foot twitched and the rubbing stopped.

“Matt?" 

It was Foggy. Foggy was here. Of course it was Foggy. But why was Foggy fondling his feet?

His body felt heavier than usual, his limbs weighed down by exhaustion. He was propped upright, but slightly crumpled to one side. He tried to change his position and found that his body couldn’t find the strength. He could feel a tube in his throat. He tried to close his mouth only to find a tube also against his teeth. He gagged and tried to breathe the choking feeling away only to find that he couldn’t. But he wasn’t suffocating either.

Alarmed, he pulled at his hands, which were restrained in soft cuffs around his wrists. He pulled again, harder, a weak panic breaking through the fog of sedatives.

“Matty, lie still," Foggy said, touching Matt’s hand. "You’re in hospital. You’re on a ventilator. You’ve been asleep for a bit.”

Matt tugged again, a little weaker this time, then clicked his fingers a couple of times.

“Please Matt. You’ll hurt yourself.” 

Foggy pressed the call button and a nurse arrived almost instantaneously.

“I wasn’t expecting him to wake up so quickly”, she said quickly checking the machines and adjusting Matt’s IV. She leaned over Matt’s bed. “Matt, can you hear me? Can you open your eyes for me?”

Foggy moved closer to the bed protectively. Eye opening seemed like a strange request for someone who was blind, but Matt eventually complied.

“Good. I’m just going to touch your hand. Can you squeeze my fingers?” she asked putting her fingers against his palm. He felt like he’d done this before.

“Great, and the other one,” she said, leaning over to his other hand.

Another nurse popped her head in and told them the doctor was on her way.

The doctor echoed the nurse’s observation, “he’s more responsive than expected on this dose. He seems to have quite a tolerance to sedatives. Even on a heavy dose, his EEG suggested more brain activity than we would expect. Do you know if he takes any benzodiazepines normally? Any sleeping pills?”

“No, he’d rather not sleep than take sleeping pills," Foggy replied.

Great, Foggy thought. Matt can even fight sedatives.

The doctor turned back to Matt. “Matt, we’d like to reduce your sedation a little more and start weaning you off the ventilator. Would you like that? Squeeze my hand if that’s a yes.”

Matt immediately squeezed her fingers. He tugged at the restraints, hoping she understood his displeasure.

“I know you don’t like the restraints but we’re worried that you’ll hurt yourself if we remove them so we’re going to leave them as is until we’ve extubated you – that is, we’ve taken you off the ventilator and removed the tube you may be able to feel in your throat. You have to stay calm and still. Do you understand?”

Matt lifted his finger in a reluctant sign of understanding. He somewhat appreciated why they needed to restrain him. He got anxious and panicky when he was ill, and also tended to overreact to any kind of restraints, which in his mind included the various tubes and wires anchoring him to the bed. But it was still not a situation he was happy with and he tried to visualise the cuffs, considering potential extraction methods. 

Foggy spent the next couple of hours with Matt’s hand in his. Just sitting. Finally, Matt made a slow, shaky gesture with one of his hands, bringing his thumb and fingers together in a ‘duck beak quacking’ kind of form.

“You want to speak?” Foggy interpreted.

Matt shook his head once.

“You want _me_ to talk?” Foggy tried again.

Matt shook his hand (‘almost’).

“You want me to read?”

Matt lifted his thumb in agreement, and Foggy grabbed _Vanity Fair_ again.

“Shall I start from the beginning?" 

Matt shook his head slightly.

“Do you remember me reading to you before?”

Matt shook his hand again (‘maybe’). Knowing Matt, even if he hadn’t heard any of it, he would have said yes just so Foggy didn’t get bored reading it again.

“Right, let’s learn more about Sir Pitt then.” Foggy cleared his throat in a dramatic fashion.

 “ _At Eton he was called Miss Crawley; and there, I am sorry to say, his younger brother Rawdon used to lick him violently But though his parts were not brilliant, he made up for his lack of talent…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Being awake and intubated is a distinctly unpleasant experience; however, I figure Matt's enough of a masochist to be happier this way. 
> 
> The quote is from William Thackeray's Vanity Fair, as introduced in the previous chapters.


	7. Those bloody wires

Matt took a little longer than expected to wean off the ventilator. They reduced the support a little over the afternoon, but when he wasn’t quite ready to be taken off the ventilator that evening, they decided to reinstate full support and retry weening in the morning. Matt was not good at failing at things, and he took not being able to breathe on his own as a personal failure. Even with a tube down his throat and half-sedated, he could make his sulking quite obvious. 

The following morning, the respiratory specialist decided that Matt was ready to be extubated. His sedatives had been reduced to minimal levels for the procedure.

“On the count of three I’d like you to cough for me and we’ll remove the tube. Are you happy with that?”

Matt nodded.

The tube was replaced with an oxygen mask once again, and Matt lay back, exhausted. 

“How are you feeling?” 

Matt made a few rough croaking sounds before he got a word out. “’kay”  

He pulled lightly on the restraints that were still attached to his wrists, reminding the doctor of her promise to remove them post-extubation.

“Yes, we’ll remove those now,” she said, quickly removing the soft cuffs.

Matt rolled his wrists and flexed his fingers. He clicked his fingers a couple of times. “Foggy?”

“He’s just waiting outside. Extubation can be a scary thing for family and friends to watch so we requested he step outside. I can call him in if you’d like.”

Matt nodded again, and coughed a little at the dryness in his throat, wincing at the subsequent pain.

“I’ll get you some water. How’s your throat feeling?”

Matt screwed up his face.

“I’ll get you something for that too.”

Another voice to his left alerted him to the cup of water they were about to place in his hands. “I can direct the straw into your mouth. I’ll just lift up the mask for a second while you take a sip. Only a small amount to begin with.” 

They supported his shaky hands as he held the cup up to his mouth, and guided his hands back to the table afterwards. He was surprised at how tired he was, even after (what he considered) sleeping for… “how many days?”

Foggy had re-entered the room by that point, and quickly answered, “three days.”

“Matt, do you remember what happened?” the doctor asked. 

Matt tried to think through the cloud of the past few days, and could only remember glimpses of uneasy consciousness, the feelings of heaviness and restless discomfort, as well as Foggy reading to him, Foggy saying his name, Foggy holding his hand…

“Don’t think so.” Matt wasn’t ready to commit to the idea of not remembering at all. Just in case.

“You had a series of seizures and what we’d categorise as a mild to moderate head injury. We’re not exactly sure what happened, but you’ve been having trouble breathing so we had to intubate you and put you on a respirator for a couple of days.”

Matt sat there silent and expressionless. Foggy could tell he was unnerved at this information though.

“Do you remember being at the hospital before we intubated you?”

A pause. “No”, Matt finally answered in a shaky voice.

The doctor went through the usual tests again: ‘squeeze my fingers’, ‘press your toes against my hands’ etc., and Matt seemed to respond a lot faster than his previous attempts.

She finally told him, “I’m not going to speculate on your outcome just yet because you’re still in the early stages of recovery, but I’m pleased with your progress so far. A neuropsychologist will visit later today to do a specialist assessment. Because you’ve been seizure free for a couple of days, we might remove the EEG wires this afternoon now that you’ve been extubated.”

Matt grimaced as she shifted the EEG leads back towards the bedhead. He was looking forward to getting rid of the extra stimuli caused by the metal’s conductivity.

The doctor continued, “until then, try to rest. If you need pain medication, or something to help with anxiety let us know. And press the call button straight away if you’re having trouble breathing. We have monitors that will alert us if anything happens and we’re checking you constantly, but let us know even if it’s slight. Do you think you can do that?”

Matt nodded and closed his eyes. He could hear Foggy’s heartbeat nearby to his left, and slightly raised his hand in that direction. Foggy understood, and taking up his usual place in the chair, clasped Matt’s hand once again and murmured, “I’m here, Matt. Rest. Get better.”


	8. alien saga continues

“I must look like an alien”, Matt said to Foggy a couple of hours later, now a bit more awake.

“What?!” Foggy spluttered.

“You know the ones on Dr Who. You said they had crazy hair and a mask over their nose and mouth.” His voice was muffled by the oxygen mask he was still wearing. 

“No, you look fine. Normal. Handsome...”

“Huh? What’s going on, Foggy?”

Foggy sighed. “Two days ago, when you were wearing your BiPAP mask. I think that’s what it was called.”

“What do you mean my BiPAP mask?”

“Similar to the one you have now, but heaps more hard-core. Covered your forehead and everything. Pretty scary-looking actually. You had to have it strapped tight onto you face and you couldn’t talk. You really, _really_ didn’t like it. Then again, you were pretty resistant to anything and everything.”

“Huh”, Matt pondered. “I don’t remember.”

“Good thing too, buddy. Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this story.”

“Well you can’t stop now. Keep talking.”

“Well, you wanted me to read you _War of the Worlds_ , and I told you you looked like an alien...” Foggy paused, his feelings of guilt rekindling.

“Is that all? It sounds like we agree then.”

“Not at the time you didn’t. You started crying.”

Foggy tried to read Matt’s face for a hint of emotion. Unlike Foggy who wore his emotions on his sleeve, Matt had perfected the ‘neutral’ face under almost any circumstances. He could turn on the charm at will, and so it was often difficult to assess his true feelings. Foggy had learned a few interpretation tricks over the years, and Matt was also more open to him than anyone else, but this was one of those instances where even Foggy had been shut out. Foggy instantly regretted telling Matt the truth, particularly as Matt was still pretty unwell. Was the revelation that he’d unknowingly expressed some sort of negative emotion so terrible that he’d been stunned into silence?

“Matt?” Foggy eventually asked.

“Foggy, would you mind getting me a coffee from the cafeteria?” Matt asked, stiffly.

“Er, I don’t think you’re meant to drink caffeine for awhile. No stimulants, no alcohol.”

“Get me an orange juice then,” Matt said with a slight snap in his voice.

“You have some here on your table along with your uneaten sandwich,” Foggy pointed out, but knew where this was going. “I’ll get you some fresh stuff from the deli down the street. No pulp, right?”

“Thanks, Foggy.”

There was no malice in Matt’s voice. He didn’t seem cross or upset, but Foggy was concerned that the revelation had affected Matt more than he was letting on. It was absurd that his throwaway line from two days ago should still be causing grief.

As Foggy walked out of the room, he turned to look at Matt again, trying to interpret his facial expression for any hint of Matt’s true reaction, but alas. And as he walked down the corridor, the tears started flowing. All the different emotions Foggy had been trying repress – the stress, the fear, sadness, the anger, and a bit of reluctant bitterness – came to a head. He tried to muffle the sobs in his sleeve and just hoped he was out of Matt’s hearing range. Foggy was rarely embarrassed about crying in front of Matt, but this was different. If Matt didn’t want to share, then neither did Foggy.

Foggy had barely been outside since Matt’s admission, only once scurrying home to quickly shower and change clothes (and only because Karen told him he smelled like a polecat and then triple-promised to stay with the then unconscious Matt the whole time he was gone). The intensity of his emotional outburst ebbed away as he left the hospital. Matt was getting better. He was awake and in much better condition than expected even yesterday. It would be okay. All the same, Foggy took his time fetching Matt’s orange juice (/diversionary tactic).

When he returned, Matt surprised Foggy by apologising profusely for his request, but otherwise saying nothing about the exchange earlier. 

While Foggy was gone, Matt’s oxygen mask had been swapped with a nasal cannula, which was a lot more drinking-friendly and also more conducive to conversation. Matt busied himself with the juice, taking micro-sips at a time, delaying the point at which he’d have to answer whatever question Foggy was hesitating to ask.

“So, what just happened, Matt?” Foggy eventually said when Matt was only a quarter of the way through the small cup after an epic ten minutes of sipping.

“I needed vitamins,” Matt responded flatly. 

“Yeah right. You can’t tell me that Matthew Murdock, a man who went out of his way to avoid asking for any kind of assistance after a substantial blow to the head, would ask someone to get an orange juice when there’s already a perfectly drinkable cup next to him. Nuh-uh. We both know you’re a terrible liar. Come on, spill it, Matt.”

“Alright. I just needed space for a few minutes. I didn’t know how to ask you to leave temporarily without risking offending you. So I sent you on a mission.”

“Yeah I know. I can read you like a book, Murdock. Do you want me to go?”

“No. I appreciate you staying here. It’s just been a lot to take in, you know. The absence of days, not knowing what happened even though I was conscious at the time, what _you_ saw me do but I can’t remember doing, waking up with all the machines, and then the suggestion that I might have done some permanent damage. I just wanted a minute totally alone to consider these things. I don’t think I’d cry because you called me an alien. I was probably just experiencing similar emotions to what I’m feeling now.” A couple of silent tears fell down Matt’s face.

“Huh.” Foggy considered Matt’s point. Perhaps the tears and third seizure weren’t just his fault then. “Do you want me to tell you what you did? It wasn’t very exciting.” 

“No thanks. Well, not right now anyway.”

“Okay. Let me know if you change your mind.”

“Thanks, Fog. You’re the best.” 

“And you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. It’s been really scary to see you so unwell, but I know you. You’ll be okay.”

* * *

 

The EEG technician returned as promised to remove the electrodes. It was a distinctly unpleasant experience.

The technician briefly commented on how interesting some of Matt’s readings were, but wouldn’t elaborate. “Your neurologist will speak to you about the EEG,” he told an overwhelmed Matt. Was that the one who spoke to him this morning? How many doctors did he have?

He then half-washed, half-pulled the electrodes out of Matt’s hair, tugging at the roots more roughly than Matt thought reasonable. “You’ll be able to get the paste out completely when you wash your hair,” he said when Matt scratched at some of the remaining clumps of congealed paste (although Matt detected that it wasn’t the whole truth). He sounded a little bored and Matt got the feeling he wasn’t terribly happy with his current job. 

Dr Bevan, the neuropsychologist, on the other hand, seemed completely engaged with Matt, but Matt took a dislike to him for different reasons. Apparently he’d spoken to Foggy without his permission, and even though Foggy had pointed out that he was unconscious at the time, Matt still took it as an unjust manoeuvre.

“We didn’t talk about anything secret”, Foggy hissed when Matt tried to argue the point again when Dr Bevan left the room to source a braille-printed book to assist with his neuropsychological assessment. “We just had a casual conversation about your usual personality, disposition, and general capacities so the doctors could better assess your then current state. Simple. Productive. Not at all controversial.” 

“It doesn’t mean I like it though,” retorted Matt.

Foggy was at least relieved that Matt was back to arguing in full sentences.


	9. Not that I don’t appreciate your musk

Matt woke up with one hand on a braille-printed page. He’d not got past the first page before the fatigue had taken over.

Dr Bevan had left a couple of books for him after Matt had demonstrated that yes, he could still read. The books were dated and appallingly twee, but they were at least something to keep his mind occupied (not that he could stay awake that long). Matt had always loved to read, and one of the things he’d always missed most after losing his sight was being able to pick up and easily read any published book. He’d long been appreciative of his proximity to New York Public Library’s specialist library for the blind, but it didn’t change the fact that his reading choices in places like the orphanage and Metro-General were always constrained by technology, demand, and budgetary priorities. He pushed away the heavy book of popular fiction from the 1980s, cross that he’d even tried to read something so déclassé.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” Foggy asked. 

“Were you just watching me sleep? Because that’s kinda creepy”

“No… well, sort of. I was also reading through some work stuff Karen printed for me. We can’t both be out of action at the same time, unfortunately.”

“I can help.”

“Oh no you can’t. You’re resting, remember?”

“What’s the time?”

“Evening. Nine o’clock.”

“You should go home and get some sleep. Eat something normal. Change your clothes. Shower. Not that I don’t appreciate your musk,” Matt added sarcastically. “It reminds me of college.”

“Good thing you’re sick otherwise I’d start talking about your smell too,” Foggy dished back.

“Yeah well maybe you could use your negotiating skills to get me a shower. Anyway, I’ll probably spend the next twelve hours sleeping so you might as well too. I’ll still be here in the morning, I promise.”

Foggy didn’t like the idea of leaving Matt in his still very unwell state, but the lure of his own bed after three nights sleeping in an armchair was pretty strong and he eventually capitulated and agreed to return in the morning.

“I’ll be holding you to that promise, Matty.”

Not long after Foggy had left, Matt’s head started to hurt again. He pressed on the call button hoping to get some Asprin, but the nurse instead switched him quickly back to an oxygen mask and started quizzing him on his breathing. Matt felt exhausted, granted, but hadn’t quite acknowledged the link between his tiredness and breathing patterns. Now that he thought about it, it was taking a lot more effort to breathe than before.

One of his doctors turned up almost immediately and examined Matt again. “We’re just going to quickly run some more blood tests, but it looks like your oxygen sats are dropping again. I’d like to increase your respiratory support for the evening. It should only be a temporary measure. I think you’re just tired and still need a little more assistance after coming off the ventilator this morning.”

Matt inwardly sighed. When would this end?

“Do you remember wearing an alternative mask just before you were intubated, Matt?”

“No, but is this where it’s going again? A repeat of the last few days?” Matt was starting to panic.

“No, you’re in a very different condition now. Overall, you’re definitely improving, but I think you just need some temporary assistance. It’s common to need more support at night.”

Matt whispered, “I told Foggy I’d be fine.” Only an hour in and he’d already broken his promise.

Matt’s priorities had always been a little odd.

It turned out that Matt really had forgotten the whole mask-panic-alien-Foggy-Karen episode, so the nurses explained the system to him again. This time Matt relaxed into the machine’s rhythm more easily, although his natural reaction was still to fight it. It wasn’t the most restful sleep, but slept fitfully till morning nonetheless. 

He woke up to the sound of Foggy grilling one of the nursing staff down the hallway about why he hadn’t been called about Matt’s change in condition: “I specifically told you to call me if anything changed. I’m still his medical proxy, and he hasn’t yet been assessed as competent to make decisions about his health.”

The nurse was desperately trying to reason with him. “Mr Murdock was conscious, aware and compliant last night. The doctor thought him more than capable of understanding his current condition and making an informed decision about his treatment options.”

“It wasn’t an official competency assessment though. It wouldn’t stand up in court,” Foggy argued.

Matt pressed the call button before Foggy could say anything he’d regret later. The nurse excused herself to attend to Matt, and Foggy followed, eager to speak to him.

Now that he was awake, his mask was swapped yet again. Matt, relieved at the freedom to speak and breathe at his own pace, croaked, “hey Foggy. I thought I heard your dulcet tones.”

“Are you okay? I was worried”

“Yeah I’m fine." 

Foggy rolled his eyes at the sound of Matt’s favourite phrase, and started ranting about being kept out of the loop. Matt finally interrupted. “Fog, could you get me some water please?”

“Oh yeah, sure. Sorry. I’ll stop now.”

He helped Matt with the cup of water. Matt still couldn’t understand how he could be so weak as to not even hold a cup without spilling it.

“I swung by your place on the way here and got you a couple of books, including Marshall, and your laptop with some DVDs. I can grab some more books from the library later if you’d like something different.”

“No, this is more than enough. Thanks. Are you going into the office today?”

“No, I brought some work with me. My main priority is you though.”

“I’m f-”

“Nope. Stop it. That phrase is banned from now on.”

“Sorry.”

“That word is banned too.”

After a lengthy silence during which Matt could feel Foggy’s eyes watching his every move, he finally asked, “could you read to me again?”

Relieved that he could do something to help, Foggy grabbed _Vanity Fair_ again. “Sure. We’re getting into the really juicy stuff.”

“ _…there was another of our acquaintances who was also to be left behind, a non-combatant, and whose emotions and behaviour we have therefore a right to know. This was our friend the ex-Collector of Boggley Wollah, whose rest was broken, like other people’s, by the sounding of bugles in the early morning…”_  

It wasn’t long before Matt was asleep again, and Foggy put away the book so that Matt didn’t miss out on the particularly amusing antics of the rotund Jos Sedley. Foggy had brought in some work, although it was hard to concentrate with Matt lying there still hooked up to various tubes and wires. Karen was still attending the office, but Nelson and Murdock was very much in hiatus. Fortunately, their current cases didn’t require any court appearances just yet, but the situation brought home just how vulnerable their little firm was to unexpected change.

* * *

 

Claire visited again that evening, and reassured Foggy and Matt that using the pressurised breathing machine at night was not an indication that Matt was going backwards, which made it easier to accept the change in mask again that evening without them both panicking. Foggy refused to leave this time and spent the night curled up in the armchair once again.

“You could always sleep on the end of the bed,” Matt had suggested when Foggy had declared his intention to stay. “I’m not really using the full length while I have to sleep upright like this.”

“If you’re so sensitive that you can feel the vibrations of a window across the room, I’m definitely not going to subject you to the vibrations of me turning in my sleep on the end of your bed. You won’t get any rest.” 

“Your snoring soothes me. It reminds me of college.”

“What are you talking about? I don’t snore. You told me I don’t.”

“I might have been lying. I didn’t want you feeling guilty.”

“You and your lies, Matt.”

“It wasn’t a harmful one.”

“Well, it makes me feel bad for Marci now. No wonder she calls me a bear.”

Matt looked amused. But then changed his tone. “I’m sorry for lying to you about, you know. You have to understand that it feels kind of empowering having a secret like that. I’ve always been treated like someone who’s broken, or at least delicate. The secret makes me feel less frustrated about being judged everyday as Matthew Murdock, that ‘poor blind man.’ It frees me from that world.”

“Yeah well no more secrets then, eh? I still haven’t properly forgiven you for not telling me about your super senses.”

“Okay. I have another secret I need to share then.”

Foggy raised his eyebrows.

“I’m really, really fucking scared right now.”

“I know, Matt. So am I. But remember, I’m still here and I will be for as long as you need me.”

The confessional came to a swift end when the nurse came into change Matt into his ‘alien mask’, as he and Foggy now officially called it. Afterwards, Foggy returned to Matt’s side, and just like he’d done during the first few days of Matt’s hospitalisation, he held Matt’s hand in support. Matt gave him a squeeze of thanks once again.

“With you silenced, Matty, I guess we’ll get back to _Vanity Fair_. Now where were we…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Matt's confession about the feelings of empowerment he experienced by keeping his supersenses secret was taken from the comics: Daredevil Volume 3, no. 22 (2013).
> 
> Quotes are from William Thackeray's Vanity Fair, as introduced in previous chapters.


	10. What’s with all the clicking?

A couple of days later, Matt’s need for significant respiratory support had lessened, and with his language back to normal(ish), five days of being seizure free, and a visible improvement on his brain scans, it was agreed that he no longer needed to be in the Neuro ICU. They’d got him out of bed and walking the previous day, and while a trip to the bathroom was enough to tire him out for the next couple of hours, his doctors were satisfied that his mobility was probably unaffected by his injury, and that the fatigue would hopefully clear up soon. Matt was relieved to finally rid of the catheter in particular. He’d found it incredibly humiliating and uncomfortable, despite Foggy’s reassurances that no one was judging him. It was also one fewer thing to tie him to the bed. He was still attached to a couple of wires, IV and oxygen, but at least those things could more easily move with him.

He was transferred to a regular ward, which was unfortunately much noisier than the deliberately quiet NICU. Somehow he ended up in a room on his own though, and Matt suspected Claire had been involved somehow. Foggy watched again as Matt clicked his fingers throughout the move and then stopped shortly after being parked in his new room.

“Okay, I have to ask. What’s with all the clicking? I thought it was just part of your weird brain-addled behaviour at first, but you’re still doing it.”

“I’m seeing the room,” Matt responded as if it was a completely normal behaviour.

“ _Seeing_ the room,” Foggy repeated, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, it’s called echolocation. I can hear the sounds bounce off objects. I’m used to the sound of my fingers clicking and so it’s kind of like my control sound when my senses are less acute. You know, as they are now.”

“Huh." 

“I’m sure I’ve told you this before.”

“You said something about a world on fire, but didn’t tell me _how_ you did it. I’ve seen you click your fingers before though. I thought it was just a thing you did when you were anxious or sick.”

“Well it is. But now you know why.”

“So what, the objects vibrate when you click?”

“No, the sound waves bounce off objects – I can tell that this object is a metal pole with bags of liquid hanging from the top because each material has its own acoustic signature. Here, I’ll show you. Do you have a book or something solid handy?” 

Foggy handed him the copy of _Vanity Fair_. Matt held his hand in front of Foggy’s face and clicked his fingers.

“Listen,” he emphasised, clicking again.

He held the book up, keeping his hand between the book and Foggy. “Okay, now listen,” he instructed, clicking his fingers again. “Do you hear the difference?”

“Mmmm… maybe…” Foggy wasn’t sure if it was suggestion or whether he was really hearing a difference.

“Maybe try blowing like this…” Matt blew air softly out of his mouth, audibly humming a little. He held up the book to Foggy’s face and moved it backwards and forwards as Foggy made the sound.

“Do you feel the air and sound bounce off the object and how it changes depending on its proximity? Can you smell and taste the slightly musty old book scent? That’s basically what I use to create a three dimensional image in my mind. A lot of blind people use this technique. Although I gather all that information in more detail than other people, of course.”

Foggy smiled. They had rarely talked about Matt’s abilities, or ‘superpowers’ as Foggy liked to refer to them – mainly because he knew the term irritated Matt. It was his own form of revenge for all the secrecy. Now he understood Matt’s irritation. His senses were indeed enhanced, but he used strategies that were distinctly within human capacity.

“What?” Matt asked when Foggy didn’t respond straight away, worried that he’d done something wrong.

“Nothing,” Foggy reassured him. “I’m just really pleased you told me about this echo thing.”

“Echolocation,” Matt corrected him.

“Yeah that.”

Foggy picked up the book and started clicking his fingers, much to Matt’s amusement. “If I learn to do this, maybe I won’t have to eat carrots anymore.”

“That’s a myth, Foggy." 

“What?”

“It’s a myth that eating carrots let you see in the dark.”

“Oh. Well I guess I’ll have an advantage against all those carrot eaters when I enter into night battles,” Foggy quipped, making Matt laugh.

* * *

 

The neuropsychologist was supposed to visit Matt again that afternoon, and Matt asked Foggy to quiz him on facts in preparation. “I don’t think that’s how it works, buddy.”

“It’s always good to study before exams, Foggy.”

“It’s not college,” Foggy said, witheringly.

“Okay. First question: what’s your name?” 

“Come on. Be serious.”

“I am being serious. I’ll give you a hint. It starts with an M.” 

Matt rolled his eyes, but responded, “Matthew Michael Murdock.”

“Is your middle name Michael? That means your initials are MMM.” 

“You knew that already, Foggy.”

“Nope. Another secret you’ve been keeping from me.”

“That’s not true. It was written on all the administrative papers at college you helped me fill out. It looks like maybe you need a neuro exam yourself.”

“This is going nowhere,” Foggy observed.

“Next question please.”

“Who’s the president of the United States of America?”

“Obama”.

“Incorrect. It’s Donald Trump.” Matt froze in alarm. How long was he out? How could he forget something like that?

“I’m kidding, buddy. Like that’s ever going to happen.”

“Good. That’s good,” Matt huffed a little absently.


	11. You could get a two-in-one dog

The doctor seemed pleased with Matt’s progress. “It’s still too early to give a concrete assessment, but it looks like you’re likely to have minimal lasting damage, if any. You’re very fortunate. We’re still monitoring your breathing, which seems to be affected more than we’d expect based on your scans, and you’re going to have to take anti-seizure medication for awhile until we are satisfied that the seizures were a one-off. Sometimes seizures reoccur eight to nine months later when the scar tissue solidifies.”

This was unwelcome news to Matt. Reliant on daily medication. The possibility of more seizures. Seizures were definitely incompatible with his evening exploits. Not that he could muster up the strength to do anything Daredevil-related right now.

Matt could tell Foggy was thinking the same thing, and anticipated an impending fight about his lifestyle choices.

“Can I go home?” Matt was rearing to go.

“Not just yet. You still need monitoring and medications, plus you’re still on oxygen, as you know. Remember what I told you - you need to take this seriously.” This particular doctor was starting to recognise Matt’s rather unproductive attitude towards his health.

“Matt, I’d like to talk to you alone if that’s okay,” she asked.

“Foggy can stay. I don’t mind,” Matt responded, a little confused. 

Foggy left the room to short-circuit the argument.

“Now, I’d like to briefly talk to you about all your scars,” the doctor asked delicately. “Can you tell me how you got them? The one on your lower right torso in particular.”

Matt looked cross. “Does this have anything to do with my current treatment?”

“Well, not really. But they’re not exactly small wounds. I need to make sure you’re not going to go out and get another head injury. This kind of damage is cumulative, and you might not be as lucky next time.”

“I won’t,” Matt said in an icy voice that clearly communicated that the conversation was over.

The doctor persisted anyway, adopting a more sanguine tone. “Is anyone hurting you?”

“Why would you think that? Because I’m blind?”

“Well, unfortunately people with disabilities are statistically more likely experience some kind of abuse, physical or otherwise.”

“Not in this case,” Matt said crisply.

“What’s your relationship like with Foggy? You’re-’

“I’m just going to cut you off there. I know where you’re going with this. Foggy has never and will never hurt me. How dare you even suggest it.”

“I have to ask. I have a duty of care. I understand that Foggy is going to temporarily move in and assist you once you’re discharged. I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

“I’m not going to talk about this anymore. You’ve misjudged both of us, and if you pursue this any further I’ll take legal action.” It was an aggressive and admittedly false threat and not one made lightly, but Matt had to shut the conversation down before his anger spilled over.

“Okay, but if you change your mind about telling me about your _full_ medical history, let me know.” The doctor walked away, frustrated with her mysterious patient. She was starting to see why he had a reputation as a formidable lawyer.

Undeterred, on leaving the room, the doctor asked Foggy about Matt’s scars only to get an equally unhelpful response. “It’s not up to me to discuss. Ask Matt.” Foggy was certain the discussion had already taken place and knew exactly how it would have gone. He felt a little sorry for the doctor because the scars were pretty horrific and completely out of keeping with Matt’s general presentation and public demeanour. Of course she was curious. She obviously cared, but unless it was relevant to Matt’s current condition, it wasn’t his place to share without his consent.

* * *

 

“Why did I have to make friends with such a complicated man?” Foggy moaned dramatically as he walked into Matt’s room. Matt was unenthusiastically picking at the hospital’s miserable attempt at a tortilla that had been sitting uneaten for probably far too long.

“She asked you about my scars, didn’t she.” It wasn’t a question.

“I told her to ask you." 

“Do you regret meeting me?”

“Pfft. Hell no. What an absurd question. If anything I wish I’d met you earlier. You’d probably have been adopted as a Nelson that way.”

“I thought I was a Nelson,” Matt said half-jokingly.

“Officially adopted, as in I’d legally be your brother. Mum and Dad send their best wishes by the way. I told them you weren’t up for visitors just yet. I thought I’d ask first.” 

“They can visit if they’d like,” Matt said, still dwelling on Foggy’s adoption comment. It’d been joked about before, but after the past week’s events, he’d come to realise that he really did have a family in Foggy after all.

“Excellent. I’ll text them now. And don’t worry. I’ll mediate and make sure mum doesn’t leap on you in concern.” 

Foggy looked at Matt’s meal and wrinkled his nose. “Maybe I’ll get her to bring some homecooked food while I’m at it. You have a pretty neat plate though with that barrier and all – you don’t need to use two hands to eat.” 

“It’s something they give blind people. It prevents people like me from accidentally pushing food overboard.” Matt seemed particularly offended by the insinuation that he couldn’t feed himself properly.

Foggy wasn’t really sure what to say. “Do you want me to ask them to serve you food on regular plates?”, he finally offered.

“No, I don’t want to make a fuss.”

“It’s not making a fuss. I know how you hate being treated differently. I’m happy to say something.”

Matt shrugged non-committally, which Foggy interpreted as an ‘if you want’ response. He’d have a quick word to the nursing staff later.

“Anyway, back to mum. The other thing I need to warn you about is that she’s been researching epilepsy and has convinced herself you need a seizure-alert dog.”

“I’m not getting a dog.”

“Yeah yeah, I know. You don’t like dogs.”

“No, it’s not that I don’t like dogs. It’s just that I don’t need one.”

“But just think. You could get a two-in-one dog: seeing eye _and_ seizure alert dog.”

“I’m not going to have any more seizures.”

Foggy narrowed his eyes. “You can’t know that. Surely you now understand you’re not invincible.”

“I know.”

“And you’re going to take the medication as prescribed?”

“Yes. This was not exactly a pleasant experience and I’m not in any hurry for an encore,” Matt pointed out, deadly serious.

“Yeah well, leopards, spots et cetera.”


	12. Good for Batman

The neuropsychologist visited Matt one final time before he was allowed to go home. Matt was itching to leave the hospital, but his doctors were worried that his blindness was going to complicate his post-hospital care. Matt hated that kind of thinking – people treating him differently because he couldn’t see. Fortunately, Dr Bevan felt the same way. Although he and Matt hadn’t got off to the best of starts, Matt had grown to respect and enjoy the doctor’s company. He was witty and respectful and didn’t talk down to Matt in any way.

Dr Bevan suggested they take a walk up to the rooftop garden. It was an extraordinarily slow walk, even though the lift to the rooftop was only thirty meters or so from Matt’s room.

Matt clicked his fingers a few times as they stepped outside. The doctor didn’t miss a trick. “Echolocation?”

“Yeah,” Matt said. “You know it?”

“I sometimes work with a guy who teaches the technique to blind people, children mostly. They call him Batman, although he says that he doesn’t have superhuman hearing. It’s pretty amazing though – on his first visit, he successfully navigated this maze of a building with his other senses alone. Most seeing people can’t do that.”

“It works well for me too.”

“I guess that means that you can probably tell this ‘garden’ is just a rooftop with a few dead-looking potplants.”

“I can tell there are no trees and there's a lot of open air,” Matt laughed. “That’s okay. I’m not here for the view.”

“So do you feel confident about getting around in public spaces and unfamiliar areas?”

“Completely.”

Dr Bevan seemed unsurprised. “I had a look at your brain scans. They’re very interesting. You seem to be using the section of your brain usually reserved for vision for other purposes. If you use echolocation, that explains why. Batman’s scans show a similar pattern. It’s remarkable really. The brain has an incredible capacity to adapt to change.”

Matt was surprised at the blasé way Dr Bevan talked about this revelation. So his scans _did_ show his extra abilities, but it was seen as reasonable brain behaviour. No interrogations, no singling out for invasive tests, or being outed as a ‘fraud’ – Matt’s greatest fear.

“I had no idea,” Matt finally said.

“Did it take you long to learn echolocation skills?”

“I trained for quite awhile as a child,” Matt said truthfully. “I’m still learning really.”

“Can you ride a bike?”

“Dunno. Never tried it.”

“Batman can,” Dr Bevan said facetiously. 

“Good for Batman.” Matt smiled.

* * *

 

“Sixteen days,” Matt moaned in the taxi on the way home. He’d left the hospital with a substantial bag of medication, follow-up appointments with four different specialists, and specific instructions to be patient and rest.

“That’s all your sick leave used up, Matt. You’re using up your holiday leave now,” Foggy quipped.

“I don’t go on holiday.”

“Maybe you should. Maybe _we_ should. You, me and Karen... would Claire come? I can’t believe you’ve still never been outside New York. We could go somewhere tropical and drink Pina Coladas with mini umbrellas and shiny cherries. You can use your radar sense to chat up all the pretty women and I can be your wingman once more. It’d be good to have a proper break… although maybe after Nelson and Murdock have started earning money.”

“Well, I’ll be having a break now. Ten days off work - _minimum_ \- sounds a bit over the top.” 

“We’ll see how you feel when you get to the top of the stairs, buddy.”

Foggy was right. It took Matt ten minutes and multiple rest breaks to get up the flight of stairs to his apartment. He collapsed into the couch with such exhaustion that Foggy worried he’d have to take him back to the hospital.

“Do you want me to help you to your bed?”

“No, I don’t think I could make it that far. I’ll just stay here. I’d love a pillow though if that’s okay.”

One of the things Matt had learned over his two-week ordeal was that asking for and/or accepting help was not necessarily a bad thing. Foggy seemed to enjoy helping Matt with even the most banal things, which still seemed odd to Matt. Foggy owed him nothing.

“Here’s a pillow. And I’ve brought you a blanket too. I’ll just grab some water for you. Do you need any painkillers? Your last ones were three hours ago." 

“Thanks, Fog. I think I’ll be fine for now.”

“Okay, well I’ll be here when you wake. I’m not going to leave you.”

He never did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Echolocation is a real strategy used by many blind people. Daniel Kish developed these skills after losing his sight as a baby. He's often referred to as Batman because of his incredible skills, and he now teaches the technique to blind children. I recently heard a wonderful podcast that follows Batman/Daniel Kish teaching a young Scottish musician how to navigate using echolocation. I recommend listening to it: http://www.bbc.com/news/disability-35550768


End file.
